University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
TWO BROTHERS.

I had never seen the personage who made his
appearance so unceremoniously. I never saw him
again for years, but the first impression he made
upon my mind was indelible. He was tall, and
dressed in a sort of mixture of the military and
the Indian costume. He had no hat, and a torrent
of auburn hair fell over his shoulders half
way to his waist. His eyes were large and blue,
and soft as a woman's; his face was regular,
but the lower part was almost entirely concealed
by immense mustachios and beard. He had a
red uniform coat with the British button, together
with leather leggins and moccasins; a
blanket was hung round his left shoulder, and a
rifle was in his right hand. As he entered the
room, he was about to address my uncle, who
seemed to regard him with a look of surprise
and horror, when suddenly his eyes lighted upon
me. To my utter dismay, he bounded towards
me like a tiger, and his eye gleamed with joy.
He caught me in his arms, pressed me to his

heart, and covered me with frantic kisses. For
a moment I hung motionless in his embrace, still
holding the devil firmly by the tail, in an ecstacy
of astonishment and fear. Presently, I began to
roar with anger and to cuff my new acquaintance,
with all the impotent malice of an infant's
rage. Finding his situation uncomfortable, the
stranger strode towards the window, with evident
intentions of taking me with him. He was
intercepted, by my uncle, who advanced toward
him with a pistol in his hand.

Upon this, the stranger, smiling with perfect
sweetness, stopped suddenly, and said, “Joshua
Morton, lest you should seek further to intimidate
me, the only way in which you can possibly excite
the evil spirit, which towards you at least, has
long been dormant within me, I will release the
child.” The stranger's voice was like a silver
clarion, and the tones haunted my memory for
years. As he finished, he placed me gently on
the ground.

“Joshua Morton,” continued he, advancing
close to my uncle, “I have long dismissed all
thoughts of violence towards you and yours. I
came here, through a thousand dangers, actuated
by a single hope. For the love of God, grant
me the child!”

My uncle seemed almost suffocated with conflicting
emotions. For an instant, as he yielded

to the strange fascination of the other's voice, he
seemed to hesitate; but suddenly his hatred and
anger again obtained the mastery. “Serpent —
vulture — fiend!” he exclaimed, “you are even
more hateful to me in this aping of forbearance —
I hate you less when you are at least not hypocritical.
Why should the wolf fear to show his
fangs, however smeared with blood?”

“Morton — Morton,” replied the other, “I am
not what you think me, — guilty I am — bloodstained
— damned. But I was not always what
fate, circumstances, nay, what you yourself have
made me. — Every day, every hour, I become
worse — I feel my heart freezing within me —
give me something to love — indeed, indeed, I
am not quite a fiend!”

“Do not prate to me of love. If you would
soften me, speak to me, as you are.—Do I not
know you full of hate and of deceit?—Have I
not found you subtle as a serpent—and ferocious
as false? Will you ask of me something that
you can love — of me, who know every line of
your history?”

“One day you will discover how much of that
history was false — but I scorn to explain. All
that for a moment can reconcile me with my
nature, is that I do not pardon myself. I know
myself too deeply laden with crimes that are
my own, to care to cast off the imputation of

others which do not belong to me. My back
aches with the burden, but I have strength to
bear all till the end. One day — you will learn
how much you have wronged me — you will
discover when it is too late, that you might still
have loved me — have still reclaimed me to virtue,
if not to happiness. But I am willing in
part to atone for my own follies and crimes, by
wearing the brand of those I was incapable of
committing — if I had time I would even now—”

A gun was fired at a slight distance from the
house. It seemed to be a signal for the stranger,
for he resumed, hastily and earnestly—“Morton—Morton—I
have but an instant's time—oh!
do not drive me back into myself. Grant my
prayer—give me something external, around which
my affections may cling. My heart is crushed—
but not dead. Give me the child—Let me still
love—Pity me — for the love of our mother, pity
me.”

“If you were writhing in the last agony at
my feet,” replied the other, “I would not reach
forth my hand to wipe the death sweat from
your face. If you hung before me on the cross,
I would not moisten your throat with one single
water-drop. If with your expiring voice you sought
me for forgiveness, I would not soothe the parting
pang by one merciful look. Is it you — is it
Maurice Morton that asks for pity — the criminal

whose hands are dyed to the bone in the blood
which is dearest to me, that dares to ask for pity?”

“If I were not criminal, should I ask to be forgiven?—Is
it not because I am a wretch, that I
sue for compassion? If I were not guilty, should
I fear myself? I ask not to be restored to happiness—not
even tranquillity — nor peace. I ask
for the child, that I may once more know a human
feeling. I say not a word in extenuation
of my crimes; but hear me swear that I do not
hate you. You rejected my love, which still renewed
itself for you: you have answered my
entreaties with curses—my repentance with scorn—
my love with hatred.—Be it so. Be it so. I
have retreated into myself—for years I have not
known one human sympathy—the blessed tone
of my native tongue has not once penetrated my
ear. I have been leagued with savages, with
desperadoes, with demons; and I have dwelt in
the wilderness with beasts, and with men more
savage than beasts. But even now I have not
quite lost all feeling of humanity. If I could be
protected from myself, I might yet become a man.
My time is expiring — an instant and I must
be gone. Pity me, Morton. Do not drive me
back into my own heart. It is filled with spectres
that scare me — it is a fearful dungeon filled
with every thing foul and frightful; and I have

dwelt within it till I am almost mad. Pity me —
let me take the child.”

He turned again towards me. “Hold,” cried
my uncle, “every word has passed idly by me.
Not a sound from your deceitful lips can ever
again penetrate my heart. Every cold, heartless,
hypocritical lie, has been told entirely in vain.
Begone! or remain an instant longer at your
peril—you know too well the penalty!”

At this instant, a third gun was discharged
almost close to the house, and the stranger threw
himself half frantic at my uncle's feet: “Hear
me—hear me!” he almost yelled, as he grovelled
on the ground, — “save me — save me from this
abyss! I hang suspended over the gulf of hell.
By the mother who nestled us both in her bosom—
by the father who held us both on his knee—
by the love they bore us both—by the love you
once felt for me — by the hundred benefits you
heaped upon me when a child, nay more, by
the blessed name of —” A smothered whoop
sounded close to the house, a step was heard,
and presently a dark form appeared at the window.
The stranger sprang to his feet, cast one
last imploring look at my uncle, read his sentence
in his rigid look, clasped me once more
convulsively in his arms, and vanished through
the window.

As soon as he was gone, my uncle fell upon
the sofa in a paroxysm of tears. Those who
suppose from the scene which has passed that
he was of a stern nature will be mistaken. He
had succeeded, at the expense of much real
agony, in maintaining the iciness of demeanour
which his judgment told him was his imperative
duty. But it is only the soft and liquid in
nature that can freeze; and my uncle's heart
was as gentle as a girl's. The iceberg melted
into a torrent, and Joshua's heart found relief
in a flood of tears.

As for me, I soon blubbered myself asleep on
the floor.

I may as well remark that the eccentric individual
in the blanket, was no less a personage
than my father.